


Reverie

by tender_wounds



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, One Shot, Other, please dont yell at me for that i am nb so i can do that maybe, there's not much too it just taken not sleeping and musing about shit, theyre not female but uhh theres no jacob/nb oc and i would like to have people read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tender_wounds/pseuds/tender_wounds
Summary: "They’re usually stoney, guarding their emotions behind a shield unable to slip past. But, now in sleep, those barricades have been pulled down and he doesn’t know what to do with this information. Doesn’t know what him seeing this means. Doesn't know how he ended up in this position. Them on top of him, resting like a pink princess from those damn children’s fairy tales they’re so fond of.He isn’t sure either how he ended up eating dinner with Ianthe and their sister who seems too sweet for her own good."
Relationships: Jacob Seed/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Reverie

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this a while ago to my tumblr, much to little reaction, but thought about posting it here recently as I was quite found of it. Turns out it sucked and so I've edited it a bunch and now it's here.
> 
> Also, Ianthe is my own oc, my tumblr is tender-wounds if you want to ask about them :3, and this was a short thing I wrote trying to get to grips with them and their relationship with the mountain man. Nothing much to it outside of cute goodness but I hope people can find enjoyment out of it.

On Ianthe’s bedside table is a clock. An alarm clock. It’s steel and painted a baby blue with bulbous bells on top that shriek every morning Jacob assumes. He hadn’t noticed it when he first entered their room but now in the dark of night, the witching hour where everything’s dead and life is nonexistent, he is hyper-aware of it. The clock has three hands and every second they tick. An unbroken, repetitive, minute tick that drills itself into his skull. There’s no sound of the quiet wildlife Jacob knows well, no crickets or owls or wolves or fireflies, no their sister’s farm is devoid of that. All it has is the damn inescapable shrill ticking of Ianthe's metal clock.

Ianthe’s bed is small, but Jacob is used to small beds made for one. The military was built on tiny cots that were barely suited for most people let alone someone as tall and large as him. Juvie was cold iron and steel with hard mattresses stained and old. The bed of his childhood was no different. It was a ratty bed given to him by heartless parents: old and lumpy and unpleasant. The effects of which he still sometimes felt. Ianthe’s bed, on the other hand, is new and wooden. It’s painted a cool white and adorned by a headboard that has a heart carved in it. Most things in the house seem to have hearts or flowers or other ‘cute’ things he doesn’t care for. Either they came with the beauty already a part of it or was added in by Florence, It all cloaks the farm in a faint fragrance too delicate for Jacob’s nose and even Ianthe’s socks are adorned with similar details. Daisies and poppies are often embroidered into them. Their covers too have this similar theme, lavender print that has been iron pressed without a single crease. Thin sheets made for the summer that are too small for the two of them, on a bed that is too small for him. 

Ianthe’s head rests on Jacob’s chest. Has been so for most of the night. It’s bowed slightly, long lashes touching their fringe. Their hair is splayed all over their back like a spider’s web or fallen leaves during autumn. Their face likewise is peaceful, true serenity if he ever saw it. They’re usually stoney, guarding their emotions behind a shield unable to slip past. But, now in sleep, those barricades have been pulled down and he doesn’t know what to do with this information. Doesn’t know what him seeing this means. Doesn't know how he ended up in this position. Them on top of him, resting like a pink princess from those damn children’s fairy tales they’re so fond of. 

He isn’t sure either how he ended up eating dinner with Ianthe and their sister who seems too sweet for her own good. 

Jacob’s arm is slung around them. It, for he has no other words to describe their situation, is unprecedented and he could tell from when they first entered, it is the same for Ianthe. Their eyes darted everywhere but to him, hands stroking their arms or back of their neck. That was a quirk Jacob picked up a while ago, something Ianthe did when they were anxious. They were quieter than usual and constantly nearly tripping over their few words, a nervous wreck in all senses. Ianthe was more confident when they first slept together, was less nervous of him seeing their body than him being in their room now. The spitting image of a baby deer first learning how to live, they blushed when he teased them for it. Mocked them rotten as if he wasn’t as unsure, as feeble. 

Ianthe is sleeping on his chest and it isn’t the first time they have done so. So many times has their head found its ways onto it, like the sly pup they tend to be. But tonight there is something about it that feels incomparable to before. Now it all feels so childish, like what they were doing was the actions of foolish teens. A fake love of children only playing at it and who didn’t really understand It. Love trivial, irrelevant for he is in their room, them sleeping on him and there has been no preamble. There has been nothing before it. 

Jacob strokes some hair from their face, it soft and silky under his touch, as night slowly turns to day. 


End file.
